In addition to being a shoe addict (5 pairs in Italia and counting), I am also a hopeless Love junkie. I love a lot of things. There is no real happy-medium for me-- I either love it, or I hate it. Ambiguity is not really my thing. I try to hide it underneath the beer talk and the football game scores, but no matter how hard I try, sometimes it’s just obvious. My roommate Raquel had me pegged by the second night we spent in the Hotel Baglione in Florence. “You’re so into the idea of Love,” she said to me.
Maybe it’s because I can’t understand it. I have never said it. I have never had it said to me. I’ve felt it, but I’ve remained silent, which, in hindsight, was probably the best thing. Just like Carrie in SATC, I’m looking for crazy, outrageous, inconvenient Love. Love that leaves no room for anything else—no doubts, no fears, just firm knowledge.
I listened to one of my roommates one night as she stood in the hallway outside my door, crying. “Love is a fairytale,” she said. “It doesn’t exist.” As I listened to her, I felt my heartbeat shudder a bit. Not because of the fact that she was obviously upset, but because of the fact that she didn’t believe. It pains me, deep down, when people profess that they don’t believe in Love. What, then, do you really have to live for? ‘What does that mean for me?’ I remember thinking. ‘That’s sad and all that she doesn’t have faith for herself, in herself, but what does it mean for me that there are other people out there who don’t believe in Love like I believe?’
Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, a young teenage girl traveled down to Florida with her family. While she was there, she met a dashing young yacht captain on the docks one night. They went out to dinner the very night they met, and by the time they kissed goodnight and the room spun as she saw fireworks, she was sure that she wanted to be with that man forever. Fate intervened. They both happened to be from New Jersey. He quit his job on the yacht after the last trip, moved back to New Jersey, and two years later, they were married, two days after she graduated high school. About another seventeen years later, pretty much unplanned, they had a child. 35 years later, they are still together, still very much in love. These people are my parents.
This is not to say it is always perfect. As the child of the union, I can tell you—there are fights and disagreements and disappointments. As my mother explained to me, it’s not so much of a constant state of Love—it’s more of an “I will always love you, but I don’t always have to like you.” It is not a ‘happily-ever-after’ fairytale all of the time. Sometimes, it is shoveling the snow off the deck and balancing the familial checkbook and swapping cars to get oil changed. Sometimes, it is planning your life around someone else’s and deferring to their hopes and dreams and aspirations because you love someone enough to know that they need to take a chance and that your own hopes and dreams and aspirations can be put on hold for a moment in order to support theirs. Sometimes, it is putting up with the mundane and the tedious and the frustrating. But, other times, it’s just—it. A sure feeling. Love. Bliss. As easy to love someone else as it is to breathe.
I used to think that this sort of perfect fairytale ending was not achievable for me, based merely on the fact that if my parents were so lucky, how could I ever be doubly lucky as well? Between Disney, the rigors of our societal traditional roles on young women, and growing up around two people so obviously in love, I started to feel jaded. Once, I told a guy I was dating this fear—that because my parents got this, that I never would. He looked at me from the passenger seat as I drove, horrified. “Why would you ever think that way?” he asked me. “Why don’t you think about how that’s what you’re supposed to find, instead?” Even if the relationship was caput, the advice was sound. After all, as a long-time family friend told me, “It wasn’t always a fairytale, after all. The first few years were downright nasty.” As it can be. Love isn’t just a fairytale, as my roommate was finding out. It’s fickle, and it’s difficult, and yes, it will make your cry sometimes. It’s not for the faint of heart, or for those who don’t like getting back up again, dusting themselves off, gluing the pieces of their heart back together, and trying again. It’s not for those who can’t speak their mind, or don’t know yet what they want. It’s not for those who don’t believe they want to find it.
The more I see of this world, the more sure I become that there’s some sort of equation to love. The amount of effort you put into finding it, cultivating it, and maintaining it is directly proportional to the amount you get from it. As my own mother, she of the 35 year+ relationship says, relationships aren’t two people each putting in 50%. A real relationship is two people both putting in 100% of their effort, while at the same time, not feeling like it’s an effort. As I have found, sometimes it even requires 110, or 115.5%, without even realizing it, just because that’s what you want to put into it. There is no Golden Rule to love and relationships. You just need to know that you are doing everything possible to find it, make it work, or to move it forward in order to know that you should be getting something out of it.
If you are a Disciple of Love, does it make you one of the chosen few more apt to find it? If you really believe in it, can you make it come true? If you are a true romantic, no matter how closeted, does that make you more entitled to your own Happy Ending? Are there really any promises?
I have met Romantics off all different shapes and sizes—the Single Girls who are doing their damnedest just searching high and low for Love. The guy who wants both the physical and mental connection. The military couple who doesn’t let distance, jobs, and danger get in their way of always, always thinking about a ‘tomorrow.’ And those eternal ponderers, always questioning if Love is really for them while just hoping to get an answer back from the great void that is the rest of the world’s dating population. Patience. Perseverance. A perverse sense of humor. If not today, then maybe tomorrow. The one thing that all these people have in common is the fact that just like my parents, they believed that they were supposed to find Love; that Love was something that they are entitled to, if not owed. There is no settling; there is no giving up. And when it comes down to it, that’s exactly what you have to remember—you are, in fact, Loveable. Guaranteed, there is someone out there who will find your quirks and idiosyncrasies—the way your voice register drops when you’re asking for a favor, how everything laid on a flat surface has to be diagonal, how your peas and your carrots must never touch—helplessly loveable. There will be someone who will care for you enough to forgive most every mistake you can make. There will be someone who can think of nothing better to do than just sit and breathe with you; just stand still with you. The trick is being patient, waiting, and keeping an open heart of your own. Don’t miss that knock. And once you find it, don’t let it go so easily. All good things are worth working for—and not just 50%. Give it 110%.
XOXO
Showing posts with label Love At First Sight. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Love At First Sight. Show all posts
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
"Of Course It Is."
I fall in little love here every day. It's a good lesson for a girl who's never said Those Three Words. Some days it's with a passer-by on the sidewalk. Others, someone I actually talk to-- a vendor, a waiter, or another student.
A different man every day-- that is my plan. Not as in, 'a different man every day' in the Biblical sense. No, thank you. As I once said, I really wish I were having as much sex as people assume I do. Because, let me tell you, when eating heavenly pear and cheese ravioli is the closest to a purely physical experience you have had in the past month, life is pretty sad, my friends, and you are NOT a-knockin' boots on the regular. 'A different man every day' as in, I would like to meet, talk to, and potentially flirt with, a different man every day. My own special way of getting to know the locals. I am an incorrigible flirt, and part of my self-designed work-plan is to get better at opening up and actually talking to people, so, why not keep myself occupied doing something I can't help as much as I can't help breathing, and also stretch my solo-emotion-zone comfort boundaries? That's my debatable (dateable?) goal here. Breaking hearts, taking names, and integrating myself with the culture.
Last night, it was my waiter at Coquinarius. (Coquinarius-- possibly the best meal I have eaten here, even better than the Bon Appetit restaurant in Venice. Mixed salad with Gorgonzola, pear, celery [which was not ingested-- can't stand the stuff. It's food that takes more eating it than it puts in you. I mean, what sort of wickedness is that?!] and walnuts paired excellently with a crisp, bright, and lively Pinot Grigo and the infamous pear and cheese stuffed ravioli.) It took me half the meal, but I eventually realized I had taken an instant comfortable liking to him because he looked like the Italian version of The Small Man, one of my favorite young professors from last semester. (He also chain-smoked Camel Lights out front of the restaurant's front stoop, too, so that bumped him up a few 'general likability' points.) He was attentive and possibly the most brilliant speaker of the English language I have met while here, and by the time I went up to the front of the restaurant to pay, we struck up a conversation. He asked me if I wanted an aperitif, on the house. You never, ever need to ask me if I want free liquor twice.
"Si! Grazie!"
"Do you like anise?" he asked, and I was nodding before I even processed, because, my adorable little waiter could have asked me if fresh lamb's blood was ok, and I would have "si"-d him to death and happily guzzled it down. A minute later, as he tipped the bottle toward me, the scent of something came riding over to me on the air currents like an ungodly chariot of death. Liquorice. Anise is liquorice, you dumbfuck. As in, that liquor that after an unfortunate experience in London junior year of high school, you swore to never drink again. As in, I don't even eat liquorice candy. As in, I think it is the black tar of plague, pestilence, and the putrid.
And yet, I reached forward, grabbed the first shot, and downed it. For you, adorable Italian waiter-friend, I will drink liquorice flavored demon water. The second one quickly followed. The room tilted a little bit.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“Carissa.” We shake. His hand is very, very warm, and I feel tiny hairs on the back of it, where the pad of my forefinger is pressing. “And what’s yours?”
“Nicolai.”
“Of course it is.” It’s out of my mouth before I can even filter it. Two glasses of pinot grig and anise, you’re a bitch. He gives me a quizzical looks. It didn’t translate, but he knows enough to be confused.
“It’s a good name,” I tell him quickly, trying to cover.
“Yes,” he agrees. “The best name. No…” He gives a little laugh and shrugs. “Will you be back?”
“I’ll be back a lot,” I tell him, no lies there. “The ravioli were molto bene. Very, very good.”
“Si. My friend says that they are like little bundles from heaven. Come back again, very soon.” I watch as he bangs the register keys, and suddenly, my total of 29 Euro is somehow, magically, 24 Euro. He winks at me.
You, sir, are a little bundle from heaven. Hello, waiter—check, please? I’d love to take you home in a doggy-bag.
"I think you are very brave," he tells me as he hands me back my change.
I push 2 Euro back at him, and he pockets it. "Pourquoi?" I ask, out of habit, not meaning to mix my French and Italian, as I inevitably do at least once a day. I have always heavily favored "pourquoi-- for why?" over just a simple "why?"
"You are here alone," he says. "Not many girls do this."
If you only knew the half of it, Nicolai. If you only knew the half of it.
---
Hindsight of this experience?
Do not ever, ever let me drink liquorice flavored liquor again. I hate it, and no matter how cute you are or how free it is, I still shouldn't have it.
Date your waiters. Seriously. They know good food and where to find it. If nothing more, you'll get a few good meals and some table-side conversation from it.
XOXO
A different man every day-- that is my plan. Not as in, 'a different man every day' in the Biblical sense. No, thank you. As I once said, I really wish I were having as much sex as people assume I do. Because, let me tell you, when eating heavenly pear and cheese ravioli is the closest to a purely physical experience you have had in the past month, life is pretty sad, my friends, and you are NOT a-knockin' boots on the regular. 'A different man every day' as in, I would like to meet, talk to, and potentially flirt with, a different man every day. My own special way of getting to know the locals. I am an incorrigible flirt, and part of my self-designed work-plan is to get better at opening up and actually talking to people, so, why not keep myself occupied doing something I can't help as much as I can't help breathing, and also stretch my solo-emotion-zone comfort boundaries? That's my debatable (dateable?) goal here. Breaking hearts, taking names, and integrating myself with the culture.
Last night, it was my waiter at Coquinarius. (Coquinarius-- possibly the best meal I have eaten here, even better than the Bon Appetit restaurant in Venice. Mixed salad with Gorgonzola, pear, celery [which was not ingested-- can't stand the stuff. It's food that takes more eating it than it puts in you. I mean, what sort of wickedness is that?!] and walnuts paired excellently with a crisp, bright, and lively Pinot Grigo and the infamous pear and cheese stuffed ravioli.) It took me half the meal, but I eventually realized I had taken an instant comfortable liking to him because he looked like the Italian version of The Small Man, one of my favorite young professors from last semester. (He also chain-smoked Camel Lights out front of the restaurant's front stoop, too, so that bumped him up a few 'general likability' points.) He was attentive and possibly the most brilliant speaker of the English language I have met while here, and by the time I went up to the front of the restaurant to pay, we struck up a conversation. He asked me if I wanted an aperitif, on the house. You never, ever need to ask me if I want free liquor twice.
"Si! Grazie!"
"Do you like anise?" he asked, and I was nodding before I even processed, because, my adorable little waiter could have asked me if fresh lamb's blood was ok, and I would have "si"-d him to death and happily guzzled it down. A minute later, as he tipped the bottle toward me, the scent of something came riding over to me on the air currents like an ungodly chariot of death. Liquorice. Anise is liquorice, you dumbfuck. As in, that liquor that after an unfortunate experience in London junior year of high school, you swore to never drink again. As in, I don't even eat liquorice candy. As in, I think it is the black tar of plague, pestilence, and the putrid.
And yet, I reached forward, grabbed the first shot, and downed it. For you, adorable Italian waiter-friend, I will drink liquorice flavored demon water. The second one quickly followed. The room tilted a little bit.
“What is your name?” he asks.
“Carissa.” We shake. His hand is very, very warm, and I feel tiny hairs on the back of it, where the pad of my forefinger is pressing. “And what’s yours?”
“Nicolai.”
“Of course it is.” It’s out of my mouth before I can even filter it. Two glasses of pinot grig and anise, you’re a bitch. He gives me a quizzical looks. It didn’t translate, but he knows enough to be confused.
“It’s a good name,” I tell him quickly, trying to cover.
“Yes,” he agrees. “The best name. No…” He gives a little laugh and shrugs. “Will you be back?”
“I’ll be back a lot,” I tell him, no lies there. “The ravioli were molto bene. Very, very good.”
“Si. My friend says that they are like little bundles from heaven. Come back again, very soon.” I watch as he bangs the register keys, and suddenly, my total of 29 Euro is somehow, magically, 24 Euro. He winks at me.
You, sir, are a little bundle from heaven. Hello, waiter—check, please? I’d love to take you home in a doggy-bag.
"I think you are very brave," he tells me as he hands me back my change.
I push 2 Euro back at him, and he pockets it. "Pourquoi?" I ask, out of habit, not meaning to mix my French and Italian, as I inevitably do at least once a day. I have always heavily favored "pourquoi-- for why?" over just a simple "why?"
"You are here alone," he says. "Not many girls do this."
If you only knew the half of it, Nicolai. If you only knew the half of it.
---
Hindsight of this experience?
Do not ever, ever let me drink liquorice flavored liquor again. I hate it, and no matter how cute you are or how free it is, I still shouldn't have it.
Date your waiters. Seriously. They know good food and where to find it. If nothing more, you'll get a few good meals and some table-side conversation from it.
XOXO
Friday, February 19, 2010
Il Giorno Degli Ragazzi
A Writer's Love Story:
I met the new love of my life yesterday when I wandered into a cartoleria shop. I picked out a funky embossed journal that looks like alligator hide with tints of bronze and teal while he gave me piccola lessons in Italian, told me where he could be found in San Lorenzo, and asked me about where I was from and what I was doing in Florence. Because of my evidently writerly lot in life, words, using them (most of the time) properly, and good communication are of the utmost importance to me. For this fact, I am loathe to engage in any sort of Italian-heavy conversation that may render me with a fish-inspired “O” shaped mouth and puzzled eyebrows. But he spoke little English, and I was willing to absolutely mangle all of the few words and phrases in Italian I do know for him.
His name is Antonio (of course), and he makes handmade leather journals, which is an impossibly perfect fit for someone who goes through journals like tissues. I think it’s perfectly poetic—the leather journal man and the writer.
Though it may have just been a journal-needing incensed crush on a vendor, seduced by the intoxicating smell of leather permeating the air and my senses, it brought up a valid moral to this tiny, unserious love story: You should want to push your boundaries for someone, potentially make a fool of yourself, and not be afraid of it. Be better. Try.
***
Short Skirt, and A Leather Jacket:
I have discovered the beauty of people falling in love with you. I have also discovered that my naturally blonde hair and big blue eyes get me even further here than at home. (Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for having those dominant genes and getting together. It's getting me far in life. Or, at least, discounts.)
So I may or may not have used someone else’s feelings and my fleeting yet called-upon considerable charm at my disposal to buy a leather jacket today for a price that was nearly robbery.
“You have boyfriend?” the store owner asked me, as he pounded calculator buttons to show me what he was willing to give me the coat for.
“Si.” (It is always easier to say yes.) The number on the calculator stayed low. I handed him the cash.
“And if you want change boys, then you come back, si?”
Moral of this buttery, smooth, silk-lined encounter? Be generous in love. Not just Love love, but in any sort of love: platonic, familial, beast-ly, co-workery, child-friendly, waiterly, etc.
***
Young, Foolish Love:
Two twenty-something...
...(all of Italy seems to consist of twenty-something, attractive men. It is a Single Girl’s Paradise, if you’re in the market for that sort of thing. If you are down on your man luck and feel as if you have wined, dined, rejected and been rejected your way through your entire dating pool, I cordially invite you to Italy and will guarantee you a handsome, semi-sane, well-dressed, disgustingly romantic date by the end of your third week here,)...
...men are rough-housing in the middle of the San Lorenzo market. One jumps on another’s back, and the packhorse stumbles toward me, a hand outstretched. “She is my girlfriend, come to save me,” he says with a roguish grin. Love should be just a little bit outrageous, and not too serious about itself.
***
The Hottie Barista (little to no English, adorable crush, amazing jeans,) at the corner bar has started giving me discounts. Thank god, because his cappuccinos heavy on the whipped cream and sugar are pretty much the only thing keeping me alive right now.
Italy is a million and one (and I have finally discovered the adjective for them--) beautiful men. I like them as long as I can get away from them.
Story of my life.
Conversely, however, I am learning a lot from them.
XOXO
I met the new love of my life yesterday when I wandered into a cartoleria shop. I picked out a funky embossed journal that looks like alligator hide with tints of bronze and teal while he gave me piccola lessons in Italian, told me where he could be found in San Lorenzo, and asked me about where I was from and what I was doing in Florence. Because of my evidently writerly lot in life, words, using them (most of the time) properly, and good communication are of the utmost importance to me. For this fact, I am loathe to engage in any sort of Italian-heavy conversation that may render me with a fish-inspired “O” shaped mouth and puzzled eyebrows. But he spoke little English, and I was willing to absolutely mangle all of the few words and phrases in Italian I do know for him.
His name is Antonio (of course), and he makes handmade leather journals, which is an impossibly perfect fit for someone who goes through journals like tissues. I think it’s perfectly poetic—the leather journal man and the writer.
Though it may have just been a journal-needing incensed crush on a vendor, seduced by the intoxicating smell of leather permeating the air and my senses, it brought up a valid moral to this tiny, unserious love story: You should want to push your boundaries for someone, potentially make a fool of yourself, and not be afraid of it. Be better. Try.
***
Short Skirt, and A Leather Jacket:
I have discovered the beauty of people falling in love with you. I have also discovered that my naturally blonde hair and big blue eyes get me even further here than at home. (Dear Mom and Dad: Thanks for having those dominant genes and getting together. It's getting me far in life. Or, at least, discounts.)
So I may or may not have used someone else’s feelings and my fleeting yet called-upon considerable charm at my disposal to buy a leather jacket today for a price that was nearly robbery.
“You have boyfriend?” the store owner asked me, as he pounded calculator buttons to show me what he was willing to give me the coat for.
“Si.” (It is always easier to say yes.) The number on the calculator stayed low. I handed him the cash.
“And if you want change boys, then you come back, si?”
Moral of this buttery, smooth, silk-lined encounter? Be generous in love. Not just Love love, but in any sort of love: platonic, familial, beast-ly, co-workery, child-friendly, waiterly, etc.
***
Young, Foolish Love:
Two twenty-something...
...(all of Italy seems to consist of twenty-something, attractive men. It is a Single Girl’s Paradise, if you’re in the market for that sort of thing. If you are down on your man luck and feel as if you have wined, dined, rejected and been rejected your way through your entire dating pool, I cordially invite you to Italy and will guarantee you a handsome, semi-sane, well-dressed, disgustingly romantic date by the end of your third week here,)...
...men are rough-housing in the middle of the San Lorenzo market. One jumps on another’s back, and the packhorse stumbles toward me, a hand outstretched. “She is my girlfriend, come to save me,” he says with a roguish grin. Love should be just a little bit outrageous, and not too serious about itself.
***
The Hottie Barista (little to no English, adorable crush, amazing jeans,) at the corner bar has started giving me discounts. Thank god, because his cappuccinos heavy on the whipped cream and sugar are pretty much the only thing keeping me alive right now.
Italy is a million and one (and I have finally discovered the adjective for them--) beautiful men. I like them as long as I can get away from them.
Story of my life.
Conversely, however, I am learning a lot from them.
XOXO
Monday, January 25, 2010
Flight Of The Midnight Sun
As I watched the sun rise in shades of pale orange, rose, and eggshell blue over the Atlantic Ocean at 6:30 AM Euro-time, and 1 AM U.S time from the plan window, it struck me that just like watching the sun rise in the middle of my night, I am in totally strange territory. In one month, I assigned myself to living in a totally foreign country for three months. There was lots of last-minute paperwork, not much planning, and a sense of total disregard for reading any of the prepatory material. Watching that midnight sun rise, I realized that not only was I not traditionally "ready," I also have no clue what I am doing. After a brief moment in which my eyes suddenly burned with a wall of saline tears pressing against the back of them, much to my total horror and embarrassment due to my attentive seatmate watching me, it passed. I am here. I said I'd do this. I need to do this. Already, I am stretching boundaries, making new friends, and opening myself up totally to whatever new experiances find me (including a group outing planned for what will be dubbed "The World's Most Offensive Scavenger Hunt" to a park replete at night with prostitutes, transvestities, and drug dealers in effort to find the holy trifecta of a transvestite drug-dealing prostitute, just to say we met one,) and just rolling with it.Something's different in the air over here. It's not just the 50 degree temperature. It's not the food smells, or the palm tree that grows below my hotel window. It's a different permiable attitude of "what will be, will be." I am far calmer and more out-going and humorous here than at home. It's easy to be with a group of strangers, as a stranger, when all the natives expect you to be different anyway. Don't get me wrong-- I'm still alternately scared shitless and asking myself what the fuck I've gotten myself into, but I'm pretty sure I'm in love with Florence, already.
I am pretty sure this is the craziest and most exciting thing I have ever done.
Thank you for letting me go do this. It means so much.
I miss you all.
XOXO
Saturday, July 18, 2009
The Proposal: Time, Work With Me For Once, Please.
Hind-sight being what it is, maybe "The Proposal" wasn't the best movie to go and see today, on the 1 month anniversary of my "I Feel That Way, Too...But I Think We Should Just Be Friends" conversation. Yes, the movie was funny, and sweet, and everything that you would expect from Anne Fletcher, director of both "The Proposal" and the previous "27 Dresses." At one point, as Sandra Bullock waved an adorable fluffy white Samoyed puppy at a golden eagle in exchange for her Crackberry, I found myself doubled-over and shaking in hysterical, breathless, noiseless laughter. (The last three times I've gone to the movies I've ended up in hysterics this way, even if it wasn't a particularly funny movie. I cracked up in "Watchmen" because of Malin Akerman's chin-mole, otherwise known that night as her "second profile, or Pale Mole Rising." She was yet again in Fletcher's second movie-- you may know Akerman as Katherine Heigel's entitled younger sister in "27 Dresses" as well. Apparently, Fletcher has a director-crush on her.) Not an overwhelmingly "chicky" flick, as Ryan Reynolds plays someone a little bit more downtrodden and submissive than most leading men tend to be, and there are no "shopping spree" fashion montages, but a really solid showing at a movie about men, women, and how complicated relationships can sometimes be-- can you imagine marrying your boss so they can get their green card? I don't think so.
It seems like I'm destined to spend the night of the 18th of every month around 8:30 feeling queasy. Last month, it was because as soon as I heard my phone ring with Perfect's "3 AM" ringtone, I knew it-- I knew I was losing the relationship, the sex, the plans we'd made for things like travel and visiting and motorcycle rides and roughhousing. I stood in Cait's kitchen, staring at the ID on my phone's screen before even flipping it open and thought, "here it all goes." I was so uncharacteristically quiet during our relationship negotiation (or "downsizing") that Perfect asked not once, but twice if I was ok, still there, and handling it. Both times, it took me a moment or two to fight back the "end of relationship and sex" nerves and nausea and answer him. I remember staring at my feet a lot, and once, leaning over the sink, thanking god I was so close to it if that's what it came down to.
This month, I gorged myself on about half my body weight's worth of popcorn to try and stop my feelings, which were simmering all throughout the movie, from actually exploding in a theater full of middle-aged strangers. (Lots of middle-aged women friends in groups of two or three, and a few middle-aged couples...Alli and I were officially the youngest patrons at the showing.) For the day, the circumstances, and the tender yet never overly mushy moments in the movie, it may have been a bad choice in casual Saturday afternoon flick, as it put me on the warpath for love to conquer everything. If a tyrannical book editor can inspire love in her beaten assistant, I should have no problems convincing Perfect that my feelings + his feelings= let's try for the best, you fucking dumbass. Right? Wrong. My life script wasn't written by Pete Chiarelli, and I do not have Sandra Bullock's capacity for wit and grace under pressure. I just tend to pop, like I was ready to, both emotionally and physically, by the time the lights came back up at the end of the credits.
"That may have been a bad movie for me to watch," I confided in Alli. "And the popcorn made me sick."
"Yeah, I was thinking that it was a little positive with the whole love-conquers-all," she said.
"I really just want to call him now and be like, "look, this is what I feel, and this is what you feel, and we can make this work, and WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?!"" My voice raised progressively higher throughout this diatribe. "But I know I can't, because then I would be proving every Crazy Bitch or psycho woman stereotype he ever had true. Do you know how many miles stand between me and a bad life decision?" I held up my fingers. "Four. Four miles between Perfect and I right now. And a whole lotta words."
"I feel like leaving this theater right now would be a bad choice," Alli conceded.
"Yeah. A.) I would probably get sick, and B.) I would make a Bad Life Decision. Again. Can we start abbreviating these to BLDs?"
And do you know that the kicker of the movie's moral was? When you love someone, you do whatever it takes to let them know. You fake a heart-attack. You try to stop a plane. You run from Alaska to New York City. (Not really, but you know, you hurry via private boat, plane, and foot.) Walking out of the theater, a clever mix of the smell of popcorn invading the entire theater and sidewalk in front of it and raw emotion and frustration made me want to vom. Why, WHY, I do not understand, can I not get my own "love conquers all" Hollywood ending? Why can't I even get a meeting with Perfect to discuss this? Why does Father Time in cohorts with The Universe keep making our schedules opposite and therefore, us unavailable to each other? Why were we even allowed to meet in the first place, and "click" and have one of those (previously thought to be fable-like to me,) instant connections like "I need and want this person, and this person needs and wants me, and the Earth drops from under me when I see them"? (Apparently, love-at-first-sight comes in a few different varying degrees, and I achieved one of them, maybe known as "I Care About You At First Sight. And Find Myself Ridiculously Attracted To You, Too.") If this is a test of patience, decidedly one of my worst-honed and almost nonexistent virtues, I like to think all this practice and good behavior while waiting is going to pay off in the end. Pay off BIG.
In the meantime, what they usually all say to you during your whole "I'm broken-up with and hurt phase"..."Times heals all wounds"...fuck it, it's all a big, fat, bleeding-heart lie, and you know it as well as I do. Time doesn't heal all wounds-- time just makes you forget a little bit and not think about it as much. Every time you do remember it, it smarts just as much as it originally did. There is no "getting over" some things-- first love, big betrayals, hurt feelings, crushed dreams, favorite memories together, or sometimes, just the scent of the deodorant someone used.
Some things are easy to quit: one day, I woke up, thought "I'm going to quit smoking weed," and POOF! Haven't felt the need or urge to sense then, and I'm the girl who used to host Weed Wednesday and Tweaker Tuesdays. Some things are harder to quit: drinking when your body tells you there's no need to stop yet, and in fact, another, please--; driving on the left side of the road oversees when you're used to driving on the right; dialing a friend's old phone number. And some things are nearly impossible to quit: obsessive-compulsive habits; using your dominant hand to to everything; and for me, having Perfect be a Big Thing in my life or getting over him. Maybe the fact that I'm having such an impossible time cutting him out means something. I've always been one of those girls who finds it much easier to just cut-off an ex when the relationship ends and then feasibly never talk to them again-- in fact, The Flaky Artist is the only one I was able to salvage a manageable working casual friendship with after a year. But Perfect? Perfect's just THERE.
He was there for me on my birthday; there when one of my best friends found out she was pregnant and I needed someone to go to who wouldn't judge either of us for freaking right the fuck out. He watched me brush my teeth, and put on deodorant and acne cream the next morning without even a flinch. He politely said, still reclining on my bed in just his boxer briefs, to say "hi" to my mom for him when she called after we had had sex. He always, still, lets me know when he'll be in town, even if we won't get a chance to see each other, just so I know he's in the area. (This is more than any other man has ever done for me. Usually, I hear, "Oh, yeah-- I was in town that night," two weeks after the fact.) He somehow, through leading by doing, got me to be more honest and open with him than 99.9% of the other people in my life by being open and honest with me and then asking questions and being persistent about them while still supportive. One of his favorite things to tack on to the end of a question if it looked like I was stalling with an answer was "I'm sorry if it's too personal; you don't have to answer it." But I always did, anyway, no matter how personal the question was or how loathe to part with the answer I was. I don't think I have ever once flat-out lied to him. I have never had a man be so solid, so dependable, and so there for me. Well, there within reason. I have to admit, now that we are no longer "us," it feels a lot different to not be able to just expect him to drop everything and show up to see me. I don't like the way it feels, but I'm coping, more or less.
In the end, of course Ryan Reynolds gets the girl. In the end, I ended up being able to keep my over-indulgent popcorn down. In the end, Alli and I got home safe without any side-trips or phone calls or freak-outs. In the end, I may not see Perfect tomorrow as we had hoped, but I will see a friend of his in Worcester, and that will hopefully be enough to keep me present and in his loop. And in the end, I may not get my rom-com ending, complete with swelling chorus of violins, but maybe, just maybe, I will be able to get the chance to salvage this relationship. And that's all I'm really asking for.
XOXO
P.S: And, oh-- no Perfect and Baby Mix illicit bro-love sightings. Of course. Silly.
It seems like I'm destined to spend the night of the 18th of every month around 8:30 feeling queasy. Last month, it was because as soon as I heard my phone ring with Perfect's "3 AM" ringtone, I knew it-- I knew I was losing the relationship, the sex, the plans we'd made for things like travel and visiting and motorcycle rides and roughhousing. I stood in Cait's kitchen, staring at the ID on my phone's screen before even flipping it open and thought, "here it all goes." I was so uncharacteristically quiet during our relationship negotiation (or "downsizing") that Perfect asked not once, but twice if I was ok, still there, and handling it. Both times, it took me a moment or two to fight back the "end of relationship and sex" nerves and nausea and answer him. I remember staring at my feet a lot, and once, leaning over the sink, thanking god I was so close to it if that's what it came down to.
This month, I gorged myself on about half my body weight's worth of popcorn to try and stop my feelings, which were simmering all throughout the movie, from actually exploding in a theater full of middle-aged strangers. (Lots of middle-aged women friends in groups of two or three, and a few middle-aged couples...Alli and I were officially the youngest patrons at the showing.) For the day, the circumstances, and the tender yet never overly mushy moments in the movie, it may have been a bad choice in casual Saturday afternoon flick, as it put me on the warpath for love to conquer everything. If a tyrannical book editor can inspire love in her beaten assistant, I should have no problems convincing Perfect that my feelings + his feelings= let's try for the best, you fucking dumbass. Right? Wrong. My life script wasn't written by Pete Chiarelli, and I do not have Sandra Bullock's capacity for wit and grace under pressure. I just tend to pop, like I was ready to, both emotionally and physically, by the time the lights came back up at the end of the credits.
"That may have been a bad movie for me to watch," I confided in Alli. "And the popcorn made me sick."
"Yeah, I was thinking that it was a little positive with the whole love-conquers-all," she said.
"I really just want to call him now and be like, "look, this is what I feel, and this is what you feel, and we can make this work, and WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE DOING?!"" My voice raised progressively higher throughout this diatribe. "But I know I can't, because then I would be proving every Crazy Bitch or psycho woman stereotype he ever had true. Do you know how many miles stand between me and a bad life decision?" I held up my fingers. "Four. Four miles between Perfect and I right now. And a whole lotta words."
"I feel like leaving this theater right now would be a bad choice," Alli conceded.
"Yeah. A.) I would probably get sick, and B.) I would make a Bad Life Decision. Again. Can we start abbreviating these to BLDs?"
And do you know that the kicker of the movie's moral was? When you love someone, you do whatever it takes to let them know. You fake a heart-attack. You try to stop a plane. You run from Alaska to New York City. (Not really, but you know, you hurry via private boat, plane, and foot.) Walking out of the theater, a clever mix of the smell of popcorn invading the entire theater and sidewalk in front of it and raw emotion and frustration made me want to vom. Why, WHY, I do not understand, can I not get my own "love conquers all" Hollywood ending? Why can't I even get a meeting with Perfect to discuss this? Why does Father Time in cohorts with The Universe keep making our schedules opposite and therefore, us unavailable to each other? Why were we even allowed to meet in the first place, and "click" and have one of those (previously thought to be fable-like to me,) instant connections like "I need and want this person, and this person needs and wants me, and the Earth drops from under me when I see them"? (Apparently, love-at-first-sight comes in a few different varying degrees, and I achieved one of them, maybe known as "I Care About You At First Sight. And Find Myself Ridiculously Attracted To You, Too.") If this is a test of patience, decidedly one of my worst-honed and almost nonexistent virtues, I like to think all this practice and good behavior while waiting is going to pay off in the end. Pay off BIG.
In the meantime, what they usually all say to you during your whole "I'm broken-up with and hurt phase"..."Times heals all wounds"...fuck it, it's all a big, fat, bleeding-heart lie, and you know it as well as I do. Time doesn't heal all wounds-- time just makes you forget a little bit and not think about it as much. Every time you do remember it, it smarts just as much as it originally did. There is no "getting over" some things-- first love, big betrayals, hurt feelings, crushed dreams, favorite memories together, or sometimes, just the scent of the deodorant someone used.
Some things are easy to quit: one day, I woke up, thought "I'm going to quit smoking weed," and POOF! Haven't felt the need or urge to sense then, and I'm the girl who used to host Weed Wednesday and Tweaker Tuesdays. Some things are harder to quit: drinking when your body tells you there's no need to stop yet, and in fact, another, please--; driving on the left side of the road oversees when you're used to driving on the right; dialing a friend's old phone number. And some things are nearly impossible to quit: obsessive-compulsive habits; using your dominant hand to to everything; and for me, having Perfect be a Big Thing in my life or getting over him. Maybe the fact that I'm having such an impossible time cutting him out means something. I've always been one of those girls who finds it much easier to just cut-off an ex when the relationship ends and then feasibly never talk to them again-- in fact, The Flaky Artist is the only one I was able to salvage a manageable working casual friendship with after a year. But Perfect? Perfect's just THERE.
He was there for me on my birthday; there when one of my best friends found out she was pregnant and I needed someone to go to who wouldn't judge either of us for freaking right the fuck out. He watched me brush my teeth, and put on deodorant and acne cream the next morning without even a flinch. He politely said, still reclining on my bed in just his boxer briefs, to say "hi" to my mom for him when she called after we had had sex. He always, still, lets me know when he'll be in town, even if we won't get a chance to see each other, just so I know he's in the area. (This is more than any other man has ever done for me. Usually, I hear, "Oh, yeah-- I was in town that night," two weeks after the fact.) He somehow, through leading by doing, got me to be more honest and open with him than 99.9% of the other people in my life by being open and honest with me and then asking questions and being persistent about them while still supportive. One of his favorite things to tack on to the end of a question if it looked like I was stalling with an answer was "I'm sorry if it's too personal; you don't have to answer it." But I always did, anyway, no matter how personal the question was or how loathe to part with the answer I was. I don't think I have ever once flat-out lied to him. I have never had a man be so solid, so dependable, and so there for me. Well, there within reason. I have to admit, now that we are no longer "us," it feels a lot different to not be able to just expect him to drop everything and show up to see me. I don't like the way it feels, but I'm coping, more or less.
In the end, of course Ryan Reynolds gets the girl. In the end, I ended up being able to keep my over-indulgent popcorn down. In the end, Alli and I got home safe without any side-trips or phone calls or freak-outs. In the end, I may not see Perfect tomorrow as we had hoped, but I will see a friend of his in Worcester, and that will hopefully be enough to keep me present and in his loop. And in the end, I may not get my rom-com ending, complete with swelling chorus of violins, but maybe, just maybe, I will be able to get the chance to salvage this relationship. And that's all I'm really asking for.
XOXO
P.S: And, oh-- no Perfect and Baby Mix illicit bro-love sightings. Of course. Silly.
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